Shattered
by sixtysix
Summary: Finchel, one-shot. Major character death. WARNING: Obviously written as a response to recent events. Pure fiction, but if you don't like the premise or the idea of it, please don't read it. I wrote this as a way to deal with what happened. I mean no disrespect to anyone. In loving memory of our favorite Canadian. Rest easy, Cory Monteith. Stay strong, Lea Michele.


Rachel feels absolutely and completely ripped in two. There are so many questions that she wants to scream at the top of her lungs, but half of the time she feels that even if she had the answers to these questions, she'd still feel broken.

Broken doesn't even begin to cover it.

When she's awake, she physically _aches_ and it is _unbearable_. Her face is perpetually red and raw from the sleeve of her robe being dragged over her cheeks to dry her tears. That's no use; they are immediately replaced. Every breath she takes feels labored and insufficient, as if the air has been robbed from her lungs. She feels cold, forget the fact it's the middle of summer; she feels that the very warmth has been stolen out of her blood. When she sleeps, though that hasn't happened very often since That Day, she dreams of him. Dreams of happy days long past. She wakes and feels as if her heart has been viciously and brutally ripped from her chest, the edges of the gaping hole tender and throbbing.

Things will never be the same. _She_ will never be the same. She hasn't stopped crying. They had a future together. They were supposed to experience the world together, fall in love some more, maybe get married, have kids and grow old together… Now all she has are plans that will never be reality and a slew of broken promises that linger in every hidden crevice of her mind and heart, and threaten her sanity every time one flits to the surface of her awareness.

Friends and family surround her every hour of every day. They tread carefully, walking on eggshells and cooing to her like a wounded animal, trying to coax her to eat, drink, sleep, shower. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognizes that one day she'll have to start doing those things again, start living again. But every morning she tells herself that tomorrow will be that day. Every morning. And then she finds herself somewhere, sitting. Sometimes staring out of a window, or into the depths of an untouched mug of tea, a spot on a marble countertop, not really seeing anything, and she can't remember how she got there.

The only thing she is aware of is the unrelenting emptiness, brokenness and heartbreak that she seems to feel in every molecule of her body. And try as she might to explain that to everyone, any words she comes up with can't do justice to what she feels. Once someone made the mistake of telling her she would be alright. She could only shake her head, first very slightly, then almost violently. She felt arms around her and someone was screaming, wailing; the sound was absolutely heart wrenching. It took her several moments to realize it was her.

No, she would not be alright. Finn was gone. How could she ever be alright again?

Shattered.

Shattered would be a more fitting description of how she feels. Beyond repair. Pain itself is what courses through her veins now. It is the only thing her body seems to feel. It is excruciating to imagine a future without him; every time she tries, she feels the wind get knocked out of her and she weeps and weeps and weeps.

It was too soon. He was too young. They were too in love. She keeps telling herself that for those reasons, it just couldn't be; this couldn't be real. She keeps hoping it is all a terrible nightmare. She's even begun to subconsciously pinch herself as if trying to wake herself up. She's broken skin several times already. Every time she feels that sharp pain and watches that tiny drop of blood bead up on the surface of her arm, her eyes flood with fresh tears and her heart clenches miserably in her chest.

Yes.

She is foolish to try and delude herself into thinking it's a dream. It couldn't be. All she feels is pain. There's no way her subconscious could construct such intricate agony.

She calls his voicemail and listens to his voice over and over again. Some part of her feels terribly pathetic, but it eases the ache marginally to pretend in this way. She's just leaving him a message. He'll call back when he gets it, just like he always does.

"I love you and I miss you so much. I can't wait to see you again."

She can't count how many times she's left that message for him. Eventually an automated voice tells her that his voicemail box is full. She feels like she's suffocating when she realizes that it will continue to say that every time she calls his number now. She can't bring herself to watch videos of them singing together, or even look at any pictures. She knows she will completely lose herself if she does. Instead she squeezes her eyes shut so tight it hurts, and she wraps her arms around herself and digs her fingernails into her flesh.

Somebody asks her something, it could have been Kurt or maybe Santana, it really makes no difference to her because she only shakes her head. That probably doesn't answer the question, but she doesn't want to be spoken to. She feels like she hasn't spoken to anyone in days. Every time she opens her mouth to say something, she can only cry. She feels like she will never want to speak again, never mind singing.

How did people cope with loss? Finn was her world, no matter what happened. It was always him. How is she supposed to recover from losing him? How is she supposed to move forward without him? How could he leave her? Didn't he love her?

She has so many questions. She is so angry, so empty, and so achingly desolate. She doesn't know what to do with herself. Nothing dulls the ache. She begins telling the automated voice that answers his phone to "please just tell him I need him to come back to me."

Rachel stays on the couch because her bed reminds her of him and her sheets seem to reek of him. She can only bear it for so long before she feels so desperate for him she wants to scream, cry, pull her hair out.

No.

No. She will never be okay.

Never.

_

_**A/N:**_

I previously posted this without names in it, just pronouns, and it got reported and taken down because "real people" etc crap. Which is ridiculous because I saw a freakin rape-fic with the real life actors like two days ago.

So anyway, I added Rachel and Finn's names.


End file.
